


In Love As Such

by honorbound



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Breakup, Codependency, Consent isn't negotiated but they're into it, Drunk Blow Jobs, Incidental Jon Lovett, M/M, Mention of Katie, Minor Original Character(s), POV Multiple, White House era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-22 12:12:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14308377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honorbound/pseuds/honorbound
Summary: In the end, it was Favs who pulled him out from under it, who wrote him a new ending. This is how.





	In Love As Such

**Author's Note:**

  * For [forgettingitsthere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/forgettingitsthere/gifts).



Love’s like the wind unseen, unknown  
I see the trees are bending where it’s been  
I know that it leaves wreckage where it’s blown  
I really don’t know what I love you means  
I think it means don’t leave me here alone 

* * *

 

When it ended, it felt like something he was watching happen to another him from the bottom of a pool, hazily filtered through 12 feet of chlorine water, Katie’s voice distant and garbled.

“It’s for the best,” he heard her say. “The answer to not being sure isn’t to get married.” He must have said something, but later he couldn’t remember saying a word. It ended without him, it didn’t need his input, his approval. Some things refused to be saved.

Katie put the ring on the counter and let herself out. He picked the ring up and turned it over in his hand. The diamond gleamed spitefully before he closed his fist and threw it at the wall.

Knowing something was coming wasn’t better than not, it just meant that he saw the dark underside sooner. It cast a long shadow over every good thing in his life. When it finally came for him, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do. They’d seen less and less of each other after the engagement, but Tommy expected that, it’s just what the job required. He liked working long hours. He wanted work to be punishing, a little, because that space when he was tired and overworked but still showing up, still quietly and steadily doing his job, fueled only by caffeine and habit, meant that his brain quieted down. His focus narrowed to the next task on his list and for once everything else was white noise. 

Later Tommy would turn his grim energy to building an impenetrable fort, on hurting himself over again in small ways because he deserved it: not sleeping; ignoring the concerned phone calls; searing his corneas at 3 am with the blue light of the computer screen; not eating either, only drinking old bitter coffee over the kitchen sink and shoveling chips into his mouth with hands clawed like an animal; but right then, when Katie left, he sank down onto the floor of his kitchen and wept.

In the weeks after it happened, he retreated so far into himself that his mom, failing to reach him on the phone, overnighted him a package of chocolate chip cookies, Red Vines, a card with a cheerful dog on it and under the card, some well-meaning bullshit self help book that proclaimed that the first step to healing was repeating mantras about being an active participant in his own life. Fuck that.

He called her and said thank you, that it was a good read and he’d eaten all the cookies. When she asked if he’d seen anyone, Jon or Cody, if he’d been anywhere besides the White House bullpen, he barked out a laugh and said goodbye. It wasn’t pity he wanted, it was just that the life he thought he would have, he didn’t have anymore. The absence was the most unsettling thing, the phantom limb throbbed at the worst times.

The book gathered dust under his bed and instead he coped by staying later and later at work, eating when he remembered. He brought extra clothes with him to the office, showered at the gym, did everything he could to avoid going back to his apartment alone. He worked to forget that somewhere there was a version of him that went home to Katie still, that shook off the day with wine over late dinners cooked together in his now sterile kitchen. In some universe, that Tommy still rolled over in the early morning light and pulled her into him, his face nuzzled into her neck and he was happy. 

Now, he didn’t remember ever holding happiness cupped in his hands like a delicate warmth. He tried to spell it out, letter by letter — he couldn’t. In the end, it was Favs who pulled him out from under it, who wrote him a new ending. 

Later, he would piece it together from conversations and pointed questions, how Jon found him at the bar after the party died out, how he’d been sober enough to call Jon but drunk enough to not want to go home.

Jon would’ve told it differently, had he been the one telling it. He’d have started, first of all, with the phone call.

 

* * *

 

It was late January and Jon was home early for a rare night in. He’d kicked off from the office around 6:00, slinging his bag over his shoulder and reminding Lovett he’d sent him more edits to review for their morning meeting.

His phone buzzed once and when he grabbed it, it was a missed call from Tommy. He looked at the screen, wondering why Tommy would call from his own NSC promotion party when the text came through. It was garbled nonsense, most of it incomprehensible typos except “wasted” and “drive”. He dialed back immediately and got sent to voicemail. Jon swore and hung up. Tommy’s phone was either dead or he turned it off, the first option  only marginally less annoying than the second. He checked the time - after midnight. Last call at Public Bar was 1:45 am if the bartender liked you, 1:00 am if they didn’t.

So that was it then, he was going to pick up a wasted Tommy from a bar before he attempted driving, got picked up for a DUI, and caused a partisan crisis. Jon could already see the headlines: WHITE HOUSE STAFFER DRIVES DRUNK, OBAMA TO BLAME.

When Jon got to Public Bar, Tommy was there at the end of the bar with some guy whispering in his ear, his hand low on Tommy’s back.

“Tom!” Jon called out, his voice bright with faux-cheeriness. “Let’s go - I’m double-parked.”

Their heads both snapped up - Tommy’s because he’d heard his name and the other guy because he’d probably sensed the protectiveness rolling off Jon in waves.

“Hey look-” the guy was drunk himself, hanging off Tommy’s belt loop as they both propped themselves up against the edge of the bar. “Look,” he slurred again, “Tom?” Tommy nodded. “Tom wants to go home with me and have fun. We’re leaving together now.” Tommy nodded again.

“I don’t think so,” Jon said. “I’m his friend and I’m taking him home, so if you’ll just let go,” Jon unhooked the proprietary finger from Tommy’s belt loop. “That’s great, just like that, thank you, great cooperation.”  

He turned back to Tommy. “You ready to head out?” Tommy was a fun drunk, he’d start out tipsy: blushing and giggling, but he tipped over into extremely drunk easily and tonight he was _drunk_. And, apparently, horny as fuck. Jon felt slightly guilty pulling him away from a hookup but Tommy had called him (and texted him) and he didn’t necessarily think a regrettable,  drunken one night stand should be high on Tommy’s list of post-engagement activities.

He’d rolled the windows down on the way home trying to sober Tommy up, but it didn’t work. He was still wasted as Jon wrestled him out of the car and into his building’s elevator. All things considered, Jon was just glad he hadn’t turned maudlin. Well, he said that, but then Tommy turned handsy instead and Jon really didn’t know what was better. He somehow groped Jon’s ass in the elevator, and broke away with a laugh when Jon swatted his hand away.

“Stop. Stop, just- God. Tommy, we are in my _hallway,’_ he hissed, fumbling for his apartment key.

“Open the door then.”

“I’m trying! Quit. Would you just–” He broke off again as he managed to get the door open and shoved Tommy inside.

“Okay, you monster, get into bed and sleep it off.”

Tommy wandered into Jon’s bedroom and flopped over onto the bed, his legs hanging off the side.

“Joooon,” he sing-songed. “I’m too tired to move.”

“I know,” Jon said, coming over and starting to pull Tommy’s shoes off. Tommy kicked his legs out. “Shh, god. Would you just stop for a second. I’m trying,” he tugged harder, “to fix this.” He finally got Tommy’s laced sneaker free and started on the other one.

Tommy suggestively pushed his foot up into Jon’s hands. Jon ignored him. Driven by impulses he refused to acknowledge, he next unbuttoned Tommy’s fly and shoved his pants down, intending to leave him to sleep in his boxers.

“Jon, I wanna get off,” Tommy whined. “I was gonna get off tonight but you didn’t let me, and unless you’re going to do something about it, I don’t want to hear it.”

Fuck, Tommy was so drunk. Tommy was _so_ drunk and he was laid out across Jon’s bed, jeans pooled around his ankles, and he was asking Jon to get him off. Jon felt drunk himself on the absurdity of it all. He didn’t stop to think. It was within his power to make Tommy feel better, so he did. He tentatively put his hand on Tommy’s stomach, and when Tommy said “Please. Jon, please,” in a broken whisper, he gave in and palmed Tommy through his boxers, then pulled the head of Tommy’s dick free.

“Fuck,” Tommy murmured, his head turned sideways to press against the sheets. Before he thought about it further, Jon bent down and put his mouth on him.

Jon had considered this so many times that now that it’s happening it still feels ripped from a dream, like he’s back in the early morning dark, rutting against the sheets, waking alone and a little ashamed. He could never envision being with Tommy any way but sideways, glancing off it. He would never allow himself to think about what it might be like to have Tommy’s hands on his body, his hips, his thighs, how it would feel to have Tommy laid bare beneath him.

But now he knew. It felt fucking great. Tommy was vocal and responsive and eager, and when Jon took him into his mouth, he’d groaned like Jon sucking his dick was the only thing he’d ever wanted. Jon had started this with good intentions, if he could call them that, he’d help Tommy out, get him off and they’d never talk about it again. But he was ending it now with a selfish wish to wipe anyone else Tommy had been with out of his head. Jon was the one touching Tommy, he was the one wringing these noises out of him with just his mouth and his hands. It was wrong. It was wrong and Tommy was drunk and Jon didn’t care, because tonight, he had this.

Jon looked up through his eyelashes to find Tommy looking at him, his hands fisted in the sheets, his breath coming quieter now. Jon kept looking at him, kept sucking at him until Tommy, pliant body straining under his mouth, came and Jon swallowed him down.

When Jon looked up again again, Tommy was lying there boneless, his arm thrown over his eyes. Jon pulled off gently and padded to the bathroom to rinse his mouth out. When he came back, Tommy had turned over and was curled on his side asleep.

Jon crawled up the bed and laid next to him, his body fitting around Tommy’s easily.

 

* * *

 

They’d fallen into a pattern, if three furtive hookups counted as a pattern. Each time, Jon was careful not to initiate or assume it would happen again. He still felt guilty about the first time and tried not think or hope this would turn into anything but what it was.

They were at Jon’s, Tommy had come over after a late staff meeting and brought a six-pack with him. Before, they’d have drunk it on Jon’s couch while watching the late re-run of SportsCenter, but now, Tommy put the beer on the counter and headed straight to the bedroom.

Jon’s mouth felt dry, but he trailed after Tommy like he always did. He stopped in the doorway to watch as Tommy pulled his shirt off over his head and flopped over on his side on the bed. He looked over at Jon and patted the space beside him until Jon crawled onto the bed too.

Sometimes Jon looked at Tommy and felt like his insides were rearranging themselves, the knobs of his spine re-stringing, his veins lit up, his entire body thrumming. Tonight though, he looked at Tommy’s back, the nape of his neck, and felt a complicated mix of sadness and foolish tenderness. He wanted to touch Tommy, but Jon’s hands suddenly felt too big for his wrists, like he’d been stitched into the wrong body.

Tommy eventually turned over to face Jon and pulled Jon’s arm over his side. He butted his forehead against Jon’s chest while breathing against him. The room was completely silent until Jon, heart pounding, said, “You can, you know. If you want to?”

Tommy pulled back to look at him with glassy eyes, so Jon showed him what he meant by nipping lightly at Tommy’s neck. Tommy grinned, quick and sweet, then bit him back, sucked hard enough that it hurt. He liked it when it hurt, he wanted to be let in, for Tommy to want him enough to mark him.

Tommy kept at it, taking Jon’s noises for the encouragement they were. He pulled back for a moment to slip his left arm under Jon’s back and fold Jon in closer. Jon turned his face into Tommy’s shoulder, afraid of what he looked like and already too vulnerable. His body was giving him away – he was hard against Tommy’s thigh, he’d been hard since Tommy had walked into the bedroom.

At first, he tried desperately not to grind against Tommy, but Tommy put his hands on Jon’s ass and urged him on. Jon let go of any semblance of control he might have had and gave himself over to it. He had a wild need to know that Tommy wanted him, wanted to be here with him because he was Jon, not because he was convenient. Jon had never really been able to restrain himself when it came to the things he wanted most. He navigated the world with the easy confidence that they’d sooner or later fall into place.

“What are we doing?” he whispered. Tommy stilled. He pushed himself up on shaky arms, his face blank.

“What do you mean?”, he said, looking down at Jon.

“Just that, you know, with you and Katie ending things–”

“I don’t want to talk about that.” Tommy said in a clipped voice.

“You’d tell me, though, right? When you want to talk?”

Tommy rolled off him and sat up.

“Favs, I really don’t want to talk about it. Not now.” He laughed, but it sounded all wrong. “Can we just not think right now? ”

Where before he’d felt hopeful, Jon now felt stubborn and wrongheaded. “But I do. I want to talk about it with you. You think I don’t know what it feels like to have shitty things happen to me? I know.”

Tommy’s lip curled and he looked doubtful.

“You want to know what I think? Sometimes I think you _think_ you know how hard the world is, but really, you’ve been living in this golden goddamn dream the entire time. I’m the one with both the dead dad and the fiancée that fucked off and left me, and I really can’t fucking talk about how I feel about any of that right now, and I especially don’t want to hear anything from you about how I handle it. ”

“No. You don’t get to do that. You think you’re the only one hung out to dry? God, I can’t— I’m not.” Jon gathered himself. Tears pricked his eyes and he tamped them down.

“I knew when we started,” he said, slow and deliberate, “that this was something I couldn’t take back. I made the decision with that in mind. If you’re done, I need to know, but it’s not casual for me.”

Tommy made a scoffing sound. “How’m I supposed to know what’s casual with you and what’s not? You’ve had your dick in half of DC at this point, odds were always good you’d manage to work me in too.”

That was a palpable hit. Jon, blind with anger, lashed back. “Don’t you fucking make this about me and how casual I’m being, not now when your broken engagement is still hanging over our heads and you won’t talk about it. For all I know, I’m a replacement mouth in the dark. I hope I sucked your dick as good as Katie did.” The words were bitter in his mouth. He’d taken the knife and without hesitating, twisted it up into the tender underside of the Tommy’s heart.

“Fuck you, Jon.” Tommy’s hands were clenched in his lap. He was remote and furious, a level of angry Jon had never seen.

He stood up and bent over Jon menacingly, his hand pressed to Jon’s chest. “Fuck.” He shoved him once. “You.”  

Tommy was out the door before Jon could get up from the bed, the door slammed behind him.

* * *

Jon needed to get laid. His usual routine was simple: pick one of the snobbily swank bars in Georgetown or Dupont Circle and then sit at the bar to wait for the approach. Buy one drink alone, buy two drinks to share, close, leave together. Thanks to his name and the persona that DC gossip blogs furnished him, it worked often enough.

He used to go to L2 Lounge, although he’d avoided it since he’d been spotted there once with Rashida. Tonight he was at Bar Dupont, which was close to his apartment and also had the added and obvious benefit of being a hotel bar. He’d started preferring hotel bars for their steady stream of women in town for one night, who didn’t want anything more from him than he knew how to give.  

He found an open stool at the bar and ordered a Bacardi and Diet Coke.

“That’s embarrassing.”

He turned, startled. ‘What, my drink order?”

The girl laughed and tucked her dark hair behind her ear. She seemed interested and she was pretty.

“Mmmhm. I haven’t had Bacardi since I got wasted on mojitos in the basement of my sorority house at 19.”

“That sounds like a personal embarrassment - impossible to extrapolate _my_ perceived embarrassment levels from your regrettable freshman decisions.”

“Are you always like this?”

Jon felt it then, the rush he got from flirting in the dark, and he knew what to do next. He angled closer to her on his stool and raised his eyebrows in a self-assured smirk. “Like what?” he delivered with all the suggestiveness he could muster.

She looked back at him steadily, and he felt his scalp prickle. “Using big words like you’re afraid your parents aren’t getting their money’s worth out of your SAT tutor.”

“Devastating blow.”

“Decimating, even.”

Sparring was fun, but he wasn’t here to quip his way through two drinks. Rote, he delivered his closer. “I’m a speechwriter for Obama.“

She chewed her straw. “So?”

“So that’s what I do, if you were wondering.”

“Was I wondering? Thanks for satisfying my obvious curiosity.” She was laughing at him, her mouth twisting as she studied his face.

“Listen,” he said, pressing forward. “Do you want to get out of here? I’m just over on 16th.”

She shrugged. “Sure. It’s not like I’m doing anything else.”

He ignored the dig as she hopped down from her bar stool and swayed slightly on her high heels. He put out a hand to steady her and she was definitely laughing at him, but she was leaving with him.

Jon guided her out the door with one hand on the small of her back.

They got back to his apartment and it’s not like he was an asshole about it – he knew what he was doing when he’d gone out and he asked for it. The least he could do was make sure she had a good time.

He’d poured them both wine and they’d drank and kissed slowly on his couch until she’d straddled him and bit under his ear. He took the hint, hooked her legs around him and walked them to the bedroom.

Once he laid her down on the bed, she reached for his belt. He pulled back slightly, he didn’t want to come, he wanted to do to her what he’d done for Tommy. He wanted to rip and replace those memories with something he could forget easily.

When she looked at him in confusion, he softened, and placed his hands on her hips. “Let me,” he said. “I want to make you feel good.”

Jon settled down between her legs and nudged them open further. He’d thought he could retreat into this, having a soft body beneath him and falling open onto her slick center, but instead all he could think about was how different she felt under him. How much he wanted to map a different body with his hands and learn it til he could navigate it blind.

When she came, she put her hands in his hair and pulled slightly, her thighs clenching around his ears. “Sorry, ah, sorry,” she gasped out, and gentled her grasp on his head, petting softly at his neck and accidentally pressing the drunken bruise Tommy had given him. Unbidden, the memory of Tommy sucking at his neck hit him and grabbed him painfully by the throat.

Jon pulled back quickly -  too quickly - and just like that, he could feel himself shutting off again. She didn’t stay much longer. After she’d offered to blow him and he’d refused again, she’d pulled her dress back on and sat cross-legged on the bed.

“Listen, I’m not here to be your mother or your therapist, and frankly, I don’t care all that much, but next time you pick a girl up at a bar, maybe don’t close the deal by saying you’re Obama’s speechwriter, and then fuck her under a picture of Bobby Kennedy. Like, I know this is Washington, but it’s a weird mood.”

He laughed despite himself, and she winked at him. He called a cab and saw her out, then went back inside to his apartment and sat on the edge of his bed in the dark for far longer than he cared to admit. He’d broken open the fragile détente he’d had with himself.

He’d started the night intending to forget Tommy, forget their fight, to get over it and move on. But instead of numbing his wounds, they’d been lashed open. He was sitting here in the dark, defenseless, guilty of taking the one relationship worthy of holding tightly to, and clenching it in his fist, squeezing so hard he crushed it into a pulpy, bloody mess.

Sometimes he thought that the reason he couldn’t let go was that he was afraid of what he’d find there when he pried his fingers apart: afraid he’d be holding a carcass where a tender heart used to be.

* * *

 

A few nights later, Favs was out for drinks with Lovett and Cody when his Blackberry lit up, skittering across the table. Tommy was calling.

“Shit, I have to go. That’s Tommy. Cody, can you get my drink and I’ll pay you back tomorrow?”

“Oh sure, drop everything for I-Have-Top-Secret-Security-Clearance Vietor–”

“Lovett,” Cody interrupted. “What does that have to do with _anything_?”

Jon tried to keep it light. “He’s been working out like a maniac since the breakup. Imagine telling Tommy no. ”

He felt relieved when Lovett grinned back. “I can _very_ easily imagine telling him no. You should try it sometime, Favreau. I’ve heard visualization really helps you achieve your goals.”

“Go. I’ll get your drink.” Cody waved him on.

The cold air hit Jon in the face, burning his eyes as he left the restaurant. He called Tommy back and this time,  he picked up immediately.

“Hello, Jonathan.” Tommy sounded drunk. “Hellooo, hello. Are you coming here, I have had shots, I have more shots–”

“Coming where? Where are you?” His phone cut out for a second before he heard Tommy answer. “–the shitty one, Dive Bar, come over. We’ll have fun. I promise we’ll have fun.”

“Listen to me, Tommy. Stay at the bar. I’ll be right there. Stay there. Do not leave. I’m coming.”

He pulled out of the parking lot and drove the 10 minutes to K Street. He left his car double-parked on the curb and walked the three blocks to Dive Bar.

Once, in their Chicago days, Tommy had gotten separated from the rest of the group during a bar crawl. They’d finally found him again hours later, sitting on the sidewalk outside a pub in Lincoln Park. If Tommy did that again and made Jon track him down, pitched in a gutter somewhere and hypothermic, Jon was going to be so fucking mad.

Maybe it was fucked up to be angry at Tommy right now, but Jon knew how Tommy worked. He bottled things up forever until he couldn’t anymore. He didn’t sound right on the phone and if this was the night that Tommy finally broke and let everything out, he shouldn’t have to do that alone.

Jon pushed open the swinging door and headed straight back  to the bar. He didn’t see Tommy. He asked the bartender. They hadn’t seen Tommy. He’d been there and he wasn’t now and it was last call anyway. “Sorry buddy, no luck.” Jon was going to murder Tommy.

Jon left and headed back to his car, rehearsing his aggrieved lecture in his head to keep himself from freaking out. He flipped his car’s headlights on and circled the block twice before he swore, parked his car again and got out to look for Tommy on foot.

There was still no one outside the bar, but someone was now sitting on the curb outside the closed deli a few storefronts down. Before he could even identify the person as Tommy, he was jogging over, carried by a profound sense of relief. It _was_ Tommy. He had his head in his hands and he looked up too quickly at Jon’s approach, immediately looked back down and threw up into the gutter.

Jon dropped to his knees beside Tommy before he thought about it, knelt right there on the cold ground, and wrapped his arms around him. Tommy let him, so they just sat there on the street, Jon’s face pressed against Tommy’s back trying to ground him. He felt like he was the only thing keeping Tommy together, his hands holding Tommy’s ribs in place while his heart knitted back together.

“M’not really that drunk,” Tommy mumbled into Jon’s shoulder.

“Well, you just threw up in the street, so.” Jon’s hand rubbed slowly up and down Tommy’s side.

“Yeah. I just wanted you to come get me.”

“I’m here,” Jon said. It felt inadequate, but it didn’t matter. Not when Tommy put his hands on top of Jon’s where they were clasped around his middle and interlaced their fingers to hold him there. “I wanna go home,” Tommy says eventually. “Take me home, please, Jon.”

“Ok, yeah. Yeah, let’s go home.” Jon maneuvered him up off the sidewalk and walked him to the car, Tommy’s arm slung over his shoulder.

When they got back to Jon’s, Tommy got himself inside. Jon followed slowly behind him to herd him to bed. Tommy pitched over face first onto the bed, then rolled over and rubbed his fists against his eyes before looking at Jon. His cheeks were flushed, his shirt collar pulled wide at the neck. He looked like a mess, but then, Jon felt like a mess.

“Have I fucked everything up?”

Favs felt like there was more to Tommy’s question than he could navigate right then, so he sat down on the bed and turned to face Tommy before answering.

“I mean, everyone fucks up sometimes, Tom. It doesn’t mean you’re a fuck up. But if you puke on me in this bed, you’re a fuck up.”

Tommy didn’t laugh at that, but he did smile a little, then scrunched his brow up. “No,” he said. “Have I fucked _us_ up. Are we fucked up?”

Jon reached out and pushed his hair off his forehead. “Shhh, it’s fine. I’ve got you.” Then, in an unexamined, impulsive bout of tenderness, Jon ran his thumb over Tommy’s eyebrow, smoothing the furrow back out.

“We’re not fucked up. I wouldn’t let you fuck us up. You know that, right? You need me, I’m there. I’m always here.”

Tommy kept his eyes closed but pushed his cheek into Jon’s open hand. He fell asleep like that, with Jon rubbing circles on his temple. When Tommy was firmly asleep, Jon quietly rolled out of bed to refill Tommy’s water glass, then got back into bed. He scrolled through his work email for a minute until he realized that all he wanted to do was watch Tommy sleep. Tommy needed him, and he called him, and he trusted him, and he let Jon take care of him. The tentative weeks before fell away, leaving behind a cautious certainty. Together they’d built something strong, it would hold. Jon didn’t need anything else.

**Author's Note:**

> Title and epigraph from Neil Gaiman's _Dark Sonnet_.


End file.
